Five Times Robin Accidently Hurt Much
by Gandalf3213
Summary: And one time he did it on purpose.
1. The First Time

_"Never injure a friend, even in jest." **Cicero**_

**#1: Trees**

For his fifth birthday, Robin got his first horse (and named it Horse. Creativity was never one of his strong suits). For his sixth birthday, he got his first bow (and was better than the twelve-year-old he shared the practice range with. For his seventh birthday, he got Much.

Much was three months older and two inches shorter: a thin, breakable stick with long legs and a sharp tongue that he couldn't seem to keep reigned in. His parents had both died in the flu that took Robin's own mother and the servants, in desperation to get Much out from under their feet, had reminded Robin's father, the Lord of Locksley, that most young men of Robin's status needed a personal servant.

So the two became inseparable, partially because Much had been threatened with things worse than death if he ever lost Robin in the vast Sherwood Forest they called their playground, but mostly because the two were genuinely fond of each other, were perfect compliments.

Much was a naysayer, a worrier, a planner. He liked to know what was happening and liked to have all the facts before jumping into the unknown. Robin, even at seven, could care less. He liked to see where the day brought him.

It was a Saturday when they decided to go for a swim. It had been a long, hot summer, a summer that found both Much and Robin working in the fields to ready the harvest. Late September had brought the first bite of cold to the air, and the harvest would be ready for picking the following week, which meant that the boys had exactly three days of reprieve from the long, tedious hours of work.

Much would have preferred to spend his time doing something less active. Whittling. Singing. Just sitting and listen to the adults shoot the breeze. But Robin had the strange inability to sit still for more than a few seconds and insisted that, since they had a day off from working, they should go find some more work to do.

"Let's build something in the forest! Like a fort in the trees that no one can see – and it'll just be for the two of us!"

"No Marian?" Much asked, smiling just a little. The first time Robin had run into Marian had been a few months ago, and though the young boy insisted that she was just as icky as all the other girls, he seemed to talk about her an awful lot.

This time, though, there was no exception even for Robin's girl. "No. It'll be a boy's fort. No girls allowed."

"Ah." Much put his knife in his pocket, sure that there wouldn't be time to carve anything today but knowing that Robin would forget that they had to notch the wood in order to make it fit together. He wove back and forth across the path as Robin darted forward, scouting out trees. By the time Much caught up, arms laden with a stack of thick wood, Robin was standing in front of one of the tallest trees in the forest.

"Now we just have to find a way to get up there."

Much smiled at the obvious oversight, looking up at the tree intently. "You know, I think we could get the wood up to the top if someone climbed up with a piece of rope and draped it over a branch…" he trailed off at Robin's too-happy look.

"No! Master, I hate climbing trees. Besides, I'm awful at it." Much whined, staring up at the first branch, ten feet above his head. "And I can't even reach the _first_ branch, let alone climb all the way to the top."

"But you have to!" Robin exclaimed, "Or else we can't build a fort!"

Much could care less about building a fort. He wanted to be at home, sleeping, not gallivanting with Robin on another one of his adventures. Every time he returned the other servant boys would tease him mercilessly about these "adventures" and Much, even at his young age, suspected there was more to their words than what he was detecting. Still, he didn't mind the taunts himself – he was thick-skinned, could take the jokes and pranks. As long as they weren't directed at Robin.

Still, there was a limit to what Much would do for his master, and climbing a forty foot tree was one of those limits. "Master, I can't. If I break my leg and miss the harvest my uncle will have my hide!"

"Then don't break your leg." Robin reasoned. "C'mon, Much, I don't want to _order_ you. It will be fun!"

"Fun." Much repeated, saying the word as one may say "maggots". Still, he could never resist Robin. It would be a pattern that would repeat themselves throughout their lives: Robin leading blindly, Much following, cautiously, willingly.

And inevitably getting hurt.

This time it happened just a few minutes in, after Robin had boosted Much up onto his shoulders and the shorter boy had grabbed hold of the lowest branch. He pulled himself up, breathing heavily, the rope slung over one of his shoulders. Finally, wobbling and cursing, he stood, eyeing the next branch.

This one was slightly thinner, but close. He had only to put his left foot on a knot in the tree in order to reach it.

"Careful…" It was almost worth climbing a tree – which Much still really, really hated to do – to hear Robin's caution, his voice anxious, worried for him, Much.

But the worry was unfounded. Much slipped with ease, if not grace, from branch to branch, rising steadily higher until he was twenty, thirty, thirty-five feet above the forest floor. He had avoided looking down for some time now – the dizziness it brought made him sick to his stomach – but now he chanced it. Robin looked no bigger than a snail. "Here, master?"

It happened in less than ten seconds.

As if his words had caused a vibration, the word under him creaked ominously. Much only had time for a quick glance at the trunk, only had time for the realization that he was about to fall, before he was actually falling, face and arms and hands hitting bark and leaves, scratching, tearing, until he was covered in small cuts.

Of course, the worst pain came with the landing. Strange, how Much had been worried about this very injury. Now, though, he was numb to the hot agony in his leg. In fact, he could feel nothing at all below his waist.

He opened his mouth to scream and found that there was nothing to scream about, unless it was the very absence of pain, which was almost scarier than blood and gore and broken bones. Instead of a scream, he found himself saying just one word, "Master?"

"Here." Much carefully turned his head until he was staring at Robin's face, hovering, scared, mere inches from his own. Robin's child hands pressed, too hard, against Much's body and the servant winced, wishing that Robin wouldn't touch him but not about to ask him to stop. "Much…"

That must have been when Robin caught sight of the broken leg, poking obscenely through flesh and trousers, white bone glinting in the middle of red gore. He swallowed an exclamation of surprise, of terror, and put his hands around Much's face when the smaller boy tried to see what had caused his master's face to contort like that.

"You'll be alright." Robin said, almost automatically. After all, that's what his own mother said whenever he was injured or sick. "I'll just go get…someone."

"No!" And suddenly, falling out of the tree again would have been nothing, nothing, compared to the fear of being alone in Sherwood Forest. Being alone and injured. "No, master, please!" Much's small hand caught Robin's equally small one and clung to it, tight. "Don't leave me!"

Robin shook out of the grasp. They would need help to get Much back home…that leg…

And if he had to look at his servant, his friend, for a second longer he would scream, because he was the one who had been so gung-ho about building the stupid fort and Much had never wanted to climb the tree in the first place. And if he looked at Much again, he would surely be sick.

So he slipped out of Much's fingers, ignoring the boy's cries of surprise, of abandonment, as he scurried away, towards home, leaving Much stranded alone.

And that was the first time Robin accidently hurt his Much.

**We find BBC shows absolutely adorable, especially this one (we've always been huge Robin Hood fans). Anyone who hasn't seen it should look it up on Netflix (which is the best thing since Google) and get back to us. It really is rather amazing.**

**Anyways, please review.**


	2. The Second Time

_"What do these children do without storybooks?" Naftali asked.  
And Reb Zebulun replied: "They have to make do. Storybooks aren't bread. You can live without them."  
"I couldn't live without them." Naftali said. **Isaac Bashevis Singer**_

**#2: Words**

It was the week leading up to Easter. Robin was sixteen years old and happy with the world. Marian and him had _something_ going on between them, though sometimes he questioned his own sanity on that fact. One day she'd laugh with him, talk to him, touch him on the shoulder or arm and then the next day she'd scream, yell, get moody about the smallest things.

"Women." Robin muttered from his perch on a wall overlooking the town. He was examining his arrows, sharpening a few, doing anything he could to delay going to church. Not that he minded it, not really, but during Easter week church was required, at least by his mother, every day, sometimes for two or three hours. And Robin just didn't have that kind of patience in him.

Suddenly there was a presence by his shoulder. Much flopped ungracefully next to him, looking for all the world like a child who had a prize hidden behind their back. "You got a letter, master." The glee in Much's voice was unmistakable and it made Robin's smile broaden. Much's joy was always infectious.

And, indeed, there was a letter in Much's hand. "See? Robin." Much pointed to the word, the first of a half dozen on the front of the parchment, indicating where the letter was to be delivered. "I saw it on the front table and knew it was yours." There was such pride in the words!

"Thanks, Much." Robin was halfway through opening the letter before he stopped short, staring strangely at his friend. "You saw my name on the letter."

"Yeah."

"And you knew it was mine." Robin wondered why this hadn't happened before. Surely… "Much, do you know how to read?"

The servant boy looked incredulous. "Of course not, master." Perhaps even a little scared. "Why would I know how to read?"

"You read my name."

"No." Much said patiently, still with a hint of a smile, though this one was slightly confused. He had no idea why his master seemed so puzzled by such a simple fact. "I _saw_ your name. My uncle pointed it out to me, once, he said that if I ever saw lines that curved like that, it meant Robin. It meant it was for you." Much seemed to sense Robin's consternation. "I don't know if any servant knows how to read, master. I've never even tried."

"I could teach you." Robin said, a note of _something_ in his voice. His father had taught him to read before he even had a tutor. He could understand English by five, Latin by eight, and most of French by thirteen. To not know even basic words seemed, to Robin, like a gross oversight.

But, at his offer, Much shook his head, "No. Why do I need to know how to read?"

"Because…" he was stuck. Robin had to learn how to read because, when he became Lord of Locksley, there would always be treaties and missives and scrolls to read, not to mention the histories that his father insisted he know. But a servant never seemed to have access to books. "Because it's a life skill. And because you should have the ability to read about…history. Philosophy. Some of it is even interesting."

Now Much looked intrigued, but still wary. "It would take too much time, master. I only know how to find your name. I don't even know…" here Much had to think. Words about words were seldom used. "Letters."

"Then that seems like as good place as any to begin. We'll start tomorrow."

Much learned quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Robin thought that he must have been exposed to the information before. By the end of the first day he could recite, slowly, haltingly, the alphabet, associate the letters with certain words (R for Robin, M for Much, L for Locksley…) and, with much care and concentration, write out his name.

The next day, Robin ran up to Much after church service. It was Good Friday, all work had been suspended for prayer. Most of Locksley knew that the children and teenagers spent most of the holy week playing, rather than praying, and Robin was suddenly glad that it was now that he was teaching Much to read.

"I brought some books, Much. They're dead easy to read." Much, who had fallen automatically into step with Robin, suddenly drew up short.

"I don't think we should continue with these lessons, master." Much kept his face aimed at the ground, making his small voice sound smaller. "There are other things we could be doing."

"I thought you liked reading, Much. You seemed interested enough yesterday." Of course, Robin would have stopped if Much was frustrated. He understood Much's valid point – that knowing something was useless if you never had the opportunity to use the knowledge. Rarely in his life would Much get anything in his hands to read. But he'd seemed willing, even eager, to learn just the day before.

Much glanced up at him, his face lifting quickly, eyes meeting Robin's for just a moment before casting his face back down. "I should go." He said, dully. "The Easter feast is going to take most of the day to prepare…"

"Much." Robin grabbed Much's sleeve, held it until the servant boy had to turn toward him. Robin put one finger on Much's cheek, unsurprised but hurt when he flinched away from the touch. "Who did this?"

Much's face was blue, black, yellow, every sickly color under the rainbow. His cheek was so swollen his left eye was glued shut, and his lip was huge in a way that was unnatural.

As soon as Robin had enough time to drink in the sight (the various cuts, the bruises that mingled, one into another) Much turned his head away, his voice still flat, dead. "I don't think we should continue those lessons, master."

Robin was not known for being closed minded, but even he, the future lord of Locksley, hadn't considered the possibility that the other servants, some Much's age or older, would be jealous, upset, outraged that the boy would learn something that was clearly out of his station.

"I'm sorry, Much." Robin said, because he suddenly felt very responsible and very, very naïve. He should have known, should have guessed, that others would have reacted badly to the lessons Robin was trying to give Much.

It was not in Much's character to remain angry. He had a slow temper and was always quick to forgive, especially his master, his Robin. "It's not your fault, master. I shouldn't have tried reading…'s stupid to think I could do it, anyway." But there was a sudden flash in his eyes, so fleeting that Robin might have missed it. Much was _upset_. He'd wanted to learn how to read, if only for himself, if only to know that he, a common servant, possessed such abilities.

The sad smile that passed over Robin's face was quickly consumed by a somber grin. "I would still like to know who did that to your face. Bullies can't be tolerated in Locksley."

"I'll point them out to you when you have your bow, master." Sixteen year olds, even kind, forgiving ones, could not resist the temptation to put others in their rightful place.

Robin laughed and threw a companionable arm around his Much, pulling him close for just a second. He truly was sorry for the hurt he caused, even if it was accidental. Wounds caused out of ignorance were still wounds, no matter the intentions behind Robin's initial actions.

"Want to go hunting?"

"I have to help in the kitchens, master. The feast really will take all weekend."

"Fishing? Climbing? Target practice. C'mon, Much, they won't miss you in the kitchens, you're dead clumsy."

Much pretended to look hurt by this fact, then sighed, a small smile making his bruised face look even uglier, if that was possible. "Master, you will be the death of me."

Neither knew how true those words were until it was too late.

**Much. Robin. Even in the books Robin struck us as over-confident, ignorant, selfish. Is it too obvious we love the sidekicks more than the main characters?**

**Thanks for the kind reviews - we didn't expect anywhere near that many. And if we could bother everyone for just a few more...**


	3. The Third Time

"_The best things said come last. People will talk for hours saying nothing much and then linger at the door with words that come with a rush from the heart."**Alan Alda**_

**#3: War**

He'd been kept out of the Holy War for as long as anyone was able to justify it. He was too young, too foolhardy, not yet grown up. He was unskilled, unchallenged. He would die of overexposure, of those strange Saracen foods, under his enemy's sword.

But when Robin was sixteen going on seventeen, they couldn't stop him. England needed fighters in order to continue their crusade, and even his father had to admit that Robin was skilled. Robin was beyond that, actually. With a blade he was fantastic. With a bow he was extraordinary.

When the time came and Robin could no longer be held back, he was ecstatic the way most teenage boys are at the prospect of a fight. He was being patriotic. He was being a good Christian, wiping out the heathens in the South. He would pack that very night, be on the ship in five days.

The first person Robin told, still in that strange, euphoric high that one gets when battle is finally in sight, was Marian. His relationship with Marian could not be summed up in words, sentences, chapters. The nuances of a single sentence would take volumes to explain. Suffice to say that they both liked each other, loved each other. Dearly. This was no teenage fling, no half-hearted crush. Robin and the maid Marian. Their love was legend.

Marian said (or, in fact, screamed) the usual. He would die. She wouldn't care. Go ahead and kill yourself. But, in that strange way that always seems to happen, her real feelings came out when his fingers touched the door. People always say what is most important just as they are about to leave.

And her words were simple, few. "Please come back." And then they kissed.

It was far from their first kiss. They'd had dozens, hundreds. But this kiss…if passion was enough to keep Robin alive, no blade or arrow or sickness would be able to fell him. They clung to each other for seconds, minutes, until they finally broke apart, gasping. Their relationship had reached a new level.

Robin had just as many final words for his beloved. "Wait for me." Then he was gone, the breeze from his departure cold and uncaring. Marian wouldn't see him for five years.

The next person Robin told was Much (he thought of Much as 'his Much' the same way the servant thought of Robin as 'his Robin'). Much was in the kitchens, peeling potatoes and eating as much as he could steal.

Robin explained, his voice getting faster and higher by the second. He still couldn't believe he would be allowed to participate in a real war, an actual war. It was exciting, thrilling. "Of course, you'll come too."

It was meant to be a question. Robin had meant for the sentence to be a question, so that Much could choose because even if it was, technically, within Robin's power to order Much to the Holy Lands, he didn't think that he could demand someone to give up years of their life to starve and sweat and fight in a forsaken land.

But in the end, the sentence wasn't really a question. The inflection was wrong, the timing off, and it became an order, rolled off the tongue in the most flippant sense possible.

Much would have gone. He would have gone even if Robin had asked him to stay behind. He personally didn't think that Robin could put on his head in the morning if Much didn't point out where it was, and, besides that, in a dangerous situation (and Much thought of war as dangerous, even if Robin didn't) he would need someone to look out for him. Someone who cared whether he lived or died or came back to Locksley in one piece.

He would have gone, but being ordered to go was like a slap in the face. He no longer had a choice in the matter. He would die because Robin told him to. Much nodded, ducked his head, and went back to peeling potatoes. Sometimes Robin was just too much.

There was a feast. It seemed, in Locksley, that there were always feasts. Feasts for birthdays, for Christmas, Michaelmas, comings, goings. Robin ate much and drank more, saying his last goodbyes to his father and looking at Marian intently over his wine glass.

The ship to the Holy Lands was large, filled with boys who hoped to become soldiers. Robin talked, played, fought beside them, learning new techniques to add to his repertoire of skills. Much, poor thing, was too sick to do anything more than hang over the side looking green, ill.

If Robin had been paying attention – if he had come down from that mind-boggling high that the prospect of battle induced in him – he would have taken notice of Much's state, would have remembered it for when they met battle, not twenty-four hours after landing in the desert. Much hadn't been trained to kill from birth, as Robin had. Much could hold a sword and shield, but was clumsy, slow. He was a manservant. He could dress Robin for battle but battle itself had always held little interest for him. Why did he care? He would be in Locksley, a safe distance from war and strife, his entire life.

The first battle they encountered was terrifying and exhilarating. To Robin, it was like a training exercise from back home, where one team would wear red and the other blue that way they knew which people to bash up.

Here, the good guys were pale skinned and the heathens were dark. It was a game, with a clear-cut enemy and a definite winner.

Robin ducked, whirled, slashed. He amassed bodies around him at a blinding speed. They weren't even bodies, though. It was a game, and he was winning this round. No one could touch him. His footwork was impressive, his aim and agility even better. That battle is what put him on the fast track to King Richard's personal guard.

In the end, the good guys had won (isn't that always the way in games?) and Robin was left panting, as happy as his companions. Here he was, sixteen years old and fresh off the boat, and he could take on full-grown Saracen warriors. This Holy War would be interesting. It might even be fun.

"Robin!" The voice pierced the bubble of his high, the high he'd been living in since he'd gotten permission to join the fight all the way back in Locksley. This voice was high, concerned, so out of place in this perfect world of fun games that Robin lived in.

Robin walked over, feeling the fun leak out of this particular sport with every step. Why, the Saracen warriors weren't monstrous. They were dark-skinned, but he'd seen dark-skinned people in England. They didn't look evil on the outside, or, indeed, old enough to be truly evil. Many were no older than Robin.

When he finally got to the source of the shouting, he found one of his companions, Samuel, bent over an unmoving heap covered in a red cloth.

"Much?" The bubble burst entirely. In games, everyone stood up after the round, laughing and joking and whacking each other on the back. But Much was still, so still, and the red cloth wasn't cloth at all but a swath of blood that wrapped around his friend like a jacket, like a glove.

And here was what Robin forgot when he signed up for this Holy War and allowed Much to come with him: he had been trained for years and years to handle a sword, to shoot a bow. It had been his only duty since he was small to learn how to defend himself. Much had not had such training – he knew how to harvest and grow, how to cook and clean and dress Robin. Defense was something he'd never been taught, ever.

Being thrust into battle so soon, with Robin darting around the field like he was made to be on one, was daunting, awful. Much was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers, by the blood that poured out of his side, his leg, his chest, his back. When he collapsed, he thought he would die. His last thought was _how embarrassing_. How embarrassing for Robin that his servant die on the first day in this new land.

"Much?" Robin touched Much's cheek, cool and clammy, wet with sweat and tears of pain. "You'll be okay." Robin vowed, looking around for someone, anyone, who could deal with these kind of wounds. There were so many…

Much managed a small, strained smile before drifting into unconsciousness. He wouldn't wake up for six days.

Robin made a sound, an awful, arching, primitive cry. Because he had gotten Much into this mess, forcing him into a situation he wasn't prepared for. Because if Much died, the blood would be on his hands entirely.

Because if Much died, he would be totally alone.

**So many reviews! We're happy to see that people who haven't seen the BBC show are reading this story. Perhaps it'll spark some interest in the amazing show.**


	4. The Fourth Time

_"Understanding is the first key to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery." **Dumbledore**_

**#4: Fever**

Robin felt as if he was waking up for the first time after a long night – or possibly several nights – of very bad dreams. Somewhere in the heat and haze of pain and fever that had been his life these past weeks he managed to dredge up one memory: screams, a voice frustratingly, achingly familiar yelling his name – _screaming_ his name.

"Robin!"

This was not the same voice, but Robin forced his eyes open anyway. The first faint rays of a grudgingly breaking dawn were peeking through a window that was almost completely obstructed from view by the largest man Robin had ever seen. Questions crept, then leapt to his sluggish mind, tongue, "Where?"

"No time." The man said, his voice strained. "Can you sit up today, Robin? This is very important – can you sit up long enough to hold a horse for three hours?"

Robin did his best to dismiss the questions that plagued him. This man obviously knew him. Obviously meant business. So he tries to pull himself up, fighting the waves of fatigue and nausea that seemed to pin him to the bed like a fist. He wobbled in that position, thinking to himself, weighing his own pitiful strength against the urgency of the man's words. "Yes, I'll be able to as long as the ride is not too hard." Then, mustering his strength, he demanded, "Who are you? Where am I?"

"I told you we have no time! Not today." The strained voice took on a rough quality. "I'll get you to the stables. It has to be now, your friend won't survive another day here." The great man shook his head. "Bloody hell, but I hope you're worth it. He insisted you were – get up! Do you think this is a game?"

Robin pushed himself to his feet, hunting hurriedly for his boots as he tried to process the information through his swimming, illness-addled head. "I don't under -"

The huge man had bent down to pick up a bundle laying on another bed. When he turned, Robin was able to piece together the whole sad sorry tale for himself.

Much looked, in Robin's opinion, quite dead. His nose had been recently broken and his naked torso was bruised, bloody, mangled. His back – Much's back…stripes like a whip, marks that could only be made by fingernails scrambling for purchase. And almost worse than this, worse than the awful stillness of the whole body, was the way Much's bones seemed to scrape against skin – ribs skimming the surface, easily countable, pelvis jutting out obscenely. Much had been starved.

Red hot anger flared even before Robin had an enemy to be angry at. "Much!" He cried, his rough throat aching at the torn syllable. His arm reached automatically to touch him only to find the huge man lurching forward, out the door and down stairs. Fighting off the very real urge to faint, Robin followed as fast as he was able.

"Please!" He screamed, throat aching with the pain of the fever and the lumps of worry. He had caught up with the huge man at the bottom of a winding staircase. "You have to tell me what's going on!"

"There's no time!" The man spat, then relented when he caught sight of Robin's openly confused, worried face. Again he said, this time mostly to himself, "I hope your worth it, lad. For his sake…"

They were crossing dew-laden grounds now, heading towards a stable. "He'll tell you, if he wakes up. Your job right now is to try to pay him back, if such a thing is even possible. Ride to the woods – due North. Don't move him for two weeks once you get there. He'll be too weak to protest and he'll be in pain, I guarantee that. Keep him drinking liquids - water, broth, anything you can get your hands on - for at least that long. You'll think you're starving him, and by the looks of him you will be."

They were at the stables now, but to Robin's surprise they didn't go in. Instead, they went around to the side of the long building where a cart attached to a single black, strong-looking horse was already waiting. The huge man laid Much gently on the hay-covered cart. There, to Robin, he looked just like a corpse.

Suddenly, Robin felt scared – the sudden sting of tears told him as much. "Will he wake up?"

The man took a great, shuddering breath, and Robin was not surprised to see that his eyes, too, were wet. "I don't know, lad. This one's been through the mill. And if he does wake up, I don't know if his legs will work – they hit his back a lot, you see."

Robin felt a sudden urge to get away from this dismal moor with the hulking man who bore nothing but bad news. He went to the front of the cart and the man gave him a boost into the driver's seat. "There's supplies in the back – herbs as well as food, for all the good I think it'll do _his_ pain." The huge man stepped away, eyeing Robin carefully. "If he wakes up, tell him that Matthew Johnson is sorry for the role he played in this." And just as Robin was about to whip the horse, about to get away once and for all, the man said, quietly,

"My God lad, I hope you're worth it.

.***.

Much woke up that very night, biting his tongue to keep from screaming in agony.

After four hours of travel through the dense woods, Robin had found a clearing that boasted a clean stream. He'd set up camp before mid-day, leaving the horse to graze in the meadow after using him to haul back to the campsite a gigantic pile of wood. The rest of the day he'd spent dozing in the aftermath of his own fever.

"M-master?" Robin turned around, forcing a strained smile to his lips. "Where are we?"

"Somewhere safe, I think." Robin knelt next to his companion, trying to find a place to touch him without causing him pain. "Much, what happened?" His high voice belayed his own frustration with the lack of answers. "We were in the Holy Land and I was coming down with a cold and then I'm in a fortress with the biggest man I've ever seen and you -" His voice hitched and he broke off, wishing he'd had more time to bandage his friend's many wounds.

"We had to l-leave, Master." Much said, his voice shaky, stuttering in pain. "I couldn't stay so near the S-Saracens after the king l-l-left. I found the c-cart and p-p-put you in it. That was…two weeks ago." Even this short speech seemed to leave Much pale, clammy, and Robin wished they could end there, but his own insatiable need for answers made itself known.

"Two weeks?" Robin wanted more information, so much more (like what had happened to Much's face, his back, his…) but the ashen color of Much's cheeks made Robin nervous, and a small voice in the back of his mind was saying _he could still die on you._

"Much…we don't have to do this now. You rest. I'll get you some water -" He stood , started towards the fire, but turned quickly when a calloused hand skimmed his wrist.

"No!" Much ground out, "N-no!" I have to finish it…I have to know…" He took a deep breath and began haltingly, pausing to catch his breath, face twisted in pain.

"You – you were so sick, M-Master. I ran out of herbs during the first week. Every f-few days you'd s-s-seem to be on the mend, only to get worse the n-next morning. I wanted to m-make camp – to take care of you – b-but the only w-w-way to get more medicine was to keep moving. Four d-d-days ago – I think – w-we were on the outskirts of the Holy R-R-Roman Empire. At a g-guard house.

"T-they had the m-medicine we n-n-needed. Ugh!" This last was uttered when the final stutter made Much almost cry, the strength it took to just _talk_ overwhelming him. He fisted one hand and looked up at the sky, letting the throbbing pain wash over him like a blanket. It was several minutes before he could talk again, this time more controlled, the pain banished to a far-off corner of his brain where it rooted deep and set up a castle and moat.

"They wanted payment. We had nothing, master, nothing except the horse, which I offered, and the weapons, which they refused. But you needed the medicine. You were going to die. The guards said they'd give me the medicine. They named their price."

Robin suddenly heard, in the back of his mind, the huge man's voice as he and Much rode away from that desolate moor. _I hope you were worth it._ And suddenly, Robin was worried about the price of a few herbs.

Much blinked up at the sky, grinding the words out one by one, determined to finish the story even if the ending wasn't happy. "They asked for my body. They asked to use me every night you were recovering. How could I refuse? Master -"

Here Robin cut him off. He was seeing red, wanted to ride back to that isolated guard house and kill them like the demons they were. At Much's last word, with his hand resting so imploringly on Robin's wrist, Robin found himself jerking away, his voice low with frustration, anger. "I am _not_ your master."

Much could not have been more injured if Robin had suddenly punched his sore and bleeding back. He jerked away, his face a picture of pain. This is what he'd been thinking about in those long, terrible hours in the dark back room that smelled of stale sex. He'd been thinking about telling Robin, his master, his friend. Thinking of his reaction.

"Please," Much was unsurprised to find his eyes stung with tears. He'd thought of this possibility, of Robin wanting nothing to do with him once he realized what terrible measures Much had to take to ensure his safety. "Please, Master…Robin…don't l-leave me here." His voice hitched again, the pain almost too much to bear. And the emotional pain! Ripping right through him, destroying his heart. He knew that Robin could easily leave him here, alone, unprotected, unarmed, unable to so much as move to help himself. And Much would die.

But the look on Robin's face changed suddenly from hard and cold to smooth, warm, compassionate. "Leave you?" incredulity. "Much, you just…you sold yourself to save me. I'm entirely in your debt." He searched his friend's tired, beaten face carefully. "You thought I was going to leave you here?"

There was no use denying it, and Much just didn't have the energy for subterfuge. He nodded, grateful that his perceptions had been wrong. Robin laughed – a strained, deranged laugh of pain and relief. "I could never leave you, Much." Robin settled on the ground, propping his head up on his elbow so that he could look at Much, see the hitching rise and fall of his chest.

A warmth spread through Robin at the thought of the terrible measures Much had taken to keep him alive. He thought, not for the last time, about that huge man in the guardhouse. _My God, lad, I hope you're worth it._

Robin didn't know if he was, indeed, 'worth it', but the shining look in admiration in Much's eyes was enough to prove that there was at least one person who thought he was worth saving. Robin turned away quickly, trying to reconcile the facts in his mind. He knew that he and Much were friends, but it wasn't until this moment that he realized that Much's loyalty had become deeper in the Holy Lands until it stretched to hero-worship. If Robin had asked his war companions, they would have thought him mad. Much was flaky, complaining, stubborn, but he loved Robin to a point where he would trade his body for medicine to save him.

So Robin could only look at Much and hope that he was worth the effort. He forced a smile to his unwilling lips, trying not to look at the bruises, the torn skin, the lash marks. "I could never leave you, Much." Robin repeated quietly. "You see, I'm going to take care of you."

**Yes, we do love that last line, even though it's not ours (it was stolen from _The Return of the King_, quite possibly the only movie that ever surpassed its book).**

**Poor, poor, poor Much. He just loves Robin too dang much. And Robin totally doesn't deserve him.**

**Peace, love, review.**


	5. The Fifth Time

_"Life is sweet but when its gone love goes on and on." **Disney's Robin Hood**_

**#5: Marian**

Much carefully picked his way through Sherwood, noticing the difference a decade or so had wrought upon the landscape. This used to be the path they went down every day, Robin in the lead and yelling at the top of his voice, Much stumbling behind under the weight of the fake swords or fake armor he was carrying, props in Robin's never-ending game of knights.

Now, though…none of Locksley's kids had found the tree house. Couldn't have, because the "path" Much was following was the wild careening of a single animal. A single Robin.

Much sighed, pressed forward even as he let his mind sink back. Back into the days when the war was a far-off something that had been going on for years and would continue after them. Back to the days when Robin would grow up to become the Lord of Locksley, a respectable enough position, and Much would be his manservant, a respectable enough position. They had both been happy, then.

They had been happy now, too, until they'd returned to the Holy Lands. Much knew it was inevitable, from the whispers and rumors flying about the Forest and Nottingham, but he hadn't expected the stench, the heat, the sounds of battle to affect him so.

Of course, it wasn't the psychological aspect of the Holy Lands that had Robin in such a state. No, that blame lay entirely on Marian.

Since they were young, Marian had done odd things to Robin. Much had noticed the romance before either of the two parties and had grinned secretly to himself whenever Robin mentioned her name, which was often. "No girls allowed in our treehouse!" Robin had proclaimed. "We'll form a club against them! GROSS! Get Rid Of Slimy girlS!"

Even at eight (and at nine, eleven, fourteen, for all those years when Robin had been denying the romance that kindled between him and the maid Marian like a flame) Much had known not to interfere with Robin's delusions. Let the man figure out his love for himself.

It had been a gradual thing. This was no love at first sight, and Marian was as much to blame as Robin. She was a tattle-tale and a cheat. She was the only person who could near Robin's skill with a bow. The only woman who had any idea what to do with a blade. She was rude, competitive, argumentative.

Which made their finally succumbing to the effects of love, lust, and fate quite interesting.

The determined set of Much's face slipped slightly. Marian, gone? She had been the only other bright spark in Much's life, the only person he considered a true friend (Robin didn't count, not really. Their relationship wasn't something that could be defined by words like _friend_ or _servant_. It was too loyal, too true to be confined into such boxes). Marian had been light.

To be killed was unspeakably awful, but to be felled by the man she'd been engaged to, in front of the man she was also engaged to…there were so many emotions in that courtyard, not the least of which had been grief.

He had made it to the base of the tree. "Master?" He called, taking great heaving breaths. "Master, I know you're up there!"

"Go away, Much."

Much sighed at the tone, then leaned against the tree to wait. There was no way he was going back up there – discounting the time when he was eight and had broken his leg trying to build the tree house, there had been four other times when he'd fallen from various heights. No. His feet would stay firmly on the ground.

Here Much was patient, calling up that old calm from his youth, when Robin would speed off and Much would be sent looking for him, plodding methodically, carefully, though all the places his master might be. He still was that old Much, in some ways, except that now he was older, harder, sadder.

The rest of the gang – all of Alan and Little John, since Will and Djaq had opted to stay in the Holy Lands – were waiting just as he was. John had probably gone hunting game, Alan had probably gone down to Locksley to hunt some more dubious fare. They had both known the wisdom of giving Robin space, but it had been two weeks without their old Robin. This new one didn't have his heart anymore.

Quietly humming, Much laid his back against the tree, trying to soak up the vitality of it. He'd need strength for this, strength to find the old Robin amongst this broken doppelganger.

And eventually Robin did come down. Much liked to think it was because he loved Much the same way Much loved him and didn't want him to wait around in the forest all day, though, much later, he thought it was simply because Robin needed someone to vent all his anger at and Much was a willing target.

Robin swung down from the lowest branch and stood, arms crossed, daring Much to say something to relate to his grief. No one could be feeling what he was about Marian. To Robin, no one else in the world could possibly be grieving.

Much sighed. He knew this wouldn't be easy. "Master, please come back to the camp."

Robin said nothing, just tightened his arms. He would not be dragged away from his brooding to go back to playing hero for a the village he used to call home. He would not go back without his Marian.

Much dropped his voice, looked down at the ground. "Robin…" he said, and both were surprised. Much used Robin's name so infrequently that when he did invoke it, Robin always paid more attention. "I loved her, too. She was beautiful, and smart, and witty as anything." Much spread his hands, at a loss for what to do. His whole purpose in life was to make Robin's life easier, and he just didn't know how to do that here. "I know you're upset, Master, but wandering in the woods is no way to honor her memory. She would want you to fight on, as we have been, I know she -"

The fist was so unexpected that Much didn't even duck. He ended, startled, on the ground, spitting blood into his hand. A tooth had been knocked loose, and his lip had been split down the middle.

Robin stood there, breathing heavily, eyes mad with anger, yes, but mostly grief and pain that was bone-deep. He looked at his closed fist and was surprised to find that it was throbbing with the force of the blow. When had that happened? How? Why? Much had seen the beginnings of their young romance, knew Marian almost as well as he knew Robin. So why had his words caused a hidden monster to stir within him and lash out?

"Much…" He said, his voice strangled, "Much…I didn't mean…"

Much nodded from the ground, propping himself up onto his elbows, finally rising to his knees. "We need you, Master. She wouldn't have wanted you to end up like this."

Robin extended a hand, grateful when Much reached out and took it (proving, once again, that he was a better man than Robin. Had it been the other way around, Robin would have stormed off in a huff, not patiently puzzled out the emotions behind the blow).

"Marian's dead." Robin said, the words real to him for the first time since the Holy Lands.

"I know."

"I don't know what to do anymore."

Much shrugged. He was only a servant. He didn't know the answers to these great riddles. "Keep fighting, I guess."

"Yeah."

And the two walked off, back through the woods, back to their broken little group, back to the half-life they'd chosen from themselves, and Robin reached over to pat Much on the shoulder. It was the two of them against the world once again.

**We just love the quote at the top. I hope that everyone has seen Disney's Robin Hood (in which Robin is a fox and Little John is a bear and there is much merry fun) because it is seriously the best classic Disney movie ever. We watched it so much the tape literally broke from wear.**

**Anyways...review.**


	6. And One Time Robin Hurt Much on Purpose

_"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." **John 15:13**_

**And One: Raid**

"I haven't all day, Hood. We both know which decision you're going to make so you might as well make it." The Sheriff sounded crankier than usual, which meant he was itching for a fight. Well, good. Robin was itching for one, too.

There really was only one choice. There were men who had Locksley surrounded, poised next to bonfires so they could burn down the village. And then there was Much, looking oddly small on the gallows, bruises on his face and back standing stark against white, white skin.

Little explanation existed. They'd gone into the castle a week ago because it was due course – they ended up there once a week anyway. They'd gotten good at hiding and fighting their way out. But then Robin had been spotted and Much turned at the last second, jumping on the guard's back. "Run!"

What could Robin do? He ran, vowing over his shoulder that he would be back. Much shrugged, allowed himself to be dragged away. He knew Robin would save him. And Robin knew that no amount of torture would make Much give up their hiding spot.

"Why are you doing this?" Marian asked, materializing at Guy's side and glaring at the Sheriff. "Neither Much nor Locksley has done anything wrong."

"But Robin Hood has and he cares for both. I just like seeing him suffer." The Sheriff shrugged, eyes gleaming. "Now, Robin, let's get this straight. You choose your servant to live and you'll be killing at least a dozen other people. You choose the town, I give you my word -"

"I'm not being funny, but I don't think his word counts for much." Allan said, loud enough for his voice to carry across the courtyard. Even Much, standing with his neck nearly in the noose, cracked a smile.

"My word." The Sheriff repeated, "That you and the rest of your gang will leave Nottingham unharmed. For today." The Sherriff sighed, tapping his fingers impatiently against the rail. "This is a lesson, Hood. Those you love are going to suffer for your crimes. If I can't get to you any other way, at least I'll make people distrust you."

There was only one choice, just as the Sheriff had planned from the beginning. He couldn't condemn the people of Locksley to death, not when there may be women and children stuck in the houses that would burst into flame at a single order. But Much…

"Much…" Robin's voice cracked, broke right down the middle. Just like his heart. "Much…"

"We can get out of this, Robin." Little John was saying in his ear. "There's only fifteen men. I can take five, you can take four. If Will, Alan, and Djaq all took two…"

"No." Robin said, his voice still quivering. "No, he'll give the order to burn Locksley if we do anything."

"I hate to say it, Robin, you know I do." It was Will, piping up as the voice of reason, "But…you know…the good of the many outweighs the good of the few."

"Or the one." Djaq murmured.

"Tell that to Much." Robin snapped, fists clenching. He _knew_ all that, he _knew_ about being a commander and going down the path that killed the fewest people. But he'd known Much longer than he'd known anyone. Longer than Marian. Much had followed him into battle, had risked life and limb and flesh and body to save him from the brink of death. He'd followed Robin into the forest as an outlaw. He'd followed Robin into crusade after crusade against the Sheriff.

And now he was standing there, letting Robin kill him.

"I'm so sorry Much." Robin was across the courtyard, but that wasn't far enough away to miss the hurt, pain, betrayal that flickered across Much's face for an instant before it was smooth, almost serene.

"It's alright, Master." Much sighed, looking down at his bound hands before jerking his head up to meet Robin's gaze head-on. "I always knew you would kill me."

"That's not funny."

"You never thought I was funny, Master."

"Call me Robin, Much, I've been telling you that for a year."

"You'll always be my Master. You know that." Why was the banter so easy now? Why was it always at the last moment that people realize they had a hundred, a thousand things to say? "I never got my Bonchurch, you know."

Robin let out shaky, slightly deranged laughter. There were a thousand things he needed to tell Much, a thousand apologies to give, a thousand debts of gratitude to make up. And now…now tears were coming to his eyes at the thought that, in a few minutes, Much wouldn't be there anymore. Much was a part of Robin, a remnant of the old Locksley and the old ways before corruption became the natural course.

"You'll get your Bonchurch, Much. I can't think of anyone who deserves it more."

The Sheriff, who had, admittedly been quite patient throughout the tearful goodbyes, waved his hand now, cocking an eyebrow at Robin. "He's just a servant, man."

"He's not." There was steel in Robin's voice and his fists clenched. The Sheriff had no idea. None of them had any idea the lengths to which Much had gone for his master, for Robin, who was forever hurting him by putting him smack in the middle of dangerous situations. Like this one.

Now Much was seeking out another face in the crowd, just as the sack was about to be slipped over his head. His eyes alighted on Little John and he held the big man's gaze. "Look after him, John. He needs someone to take care of him."

"Mother hen." Robin said, crying in earnest now. The good of the many be damned, in a second he was going to call the whole thing off. Locksley may burn and it may not. Much would die. Period.

"Reckless idiot." Much's words were muffled by the bag, by the noose being tightened around his neck.

Allan pressed close to Robin. "Mate, we're not going to let him…I mean…it's Much…" For his part Allan A Dell's eyes were not wet, but they were bright with an animal need to move, to act, to do something. "We can cut him down like you did for us at the beginning."

"Allan." Will grabbed Allan's shoulder, shook him roughly and whispered words that Robin was obviously not supposed to hear. He heard, anyway. "Don't make this harder for him…"

For a moment, Robin contemplated turning around. The thought of facing Much's swinging body, of hearing that awful crack as the neck snapped, chilled Robin to his very core.

But he'd caused this. He'd led Much on so many dangerous escapades that one was bound to catch up to them. And Much had always warned, had always expressed his many valid concerns, poking holes all over Robin's dangerous plans. And Robin always went ahead with them anyway.

Here was his lesson, his cross to bear. He was Robin Hood, who'd saved the king in the Holy Lands, who'd become the hero of folk lore throughout all of England. He was Robin Hood, who let the most brave and noble man he'd ever met swing for his mistakes.

So he turned and watched, the tears now obscuring his vision so much it almost made it impossible to see. Almost. There was the familiar beat of the drums, the familiar, collective intake of breath from the crowd as the executioner reached for his terrible lever. In an instant it was pulled. And Robin did look away, but not before he saw the swinging body, heard the snap of the neck.

Then he locked eyes with the Sheriff. If his heart hadn't shattered into pieces just seconds earlier, he would have felt some sense of accomplishment when the Sheriff stumbled back from the venom, the hatred in his eyes. But now he just couldn't bring himself to care. The Sheriff had taken his Much from him.

The world was gray.

**The End.**

**Okay, that was obviously AU (as Marian lives and Much does not. That's just wrong) but that was surprisingly fun to write. Happy Thanksgiving to all my US friends, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to the rest of the world.**

**And, for the last time, please review.**


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